At night, sea wolves sniff around our boatsnapping at the lines, scratching the shroudshowling in frustration that only the rainand not they can get in,its persistent drips seeping throughthread-thin cracks and gaps.The wolves renew their howling,bare their glowing teeth in the darkoutside the portholes,scratching at the shrouds,looking for ways to follow the rainhowling, yowling, rocking the hull,shaking the masts, rattling the linesin vain.We sleep inside, lulled by the rockingof the hull, heedless of the scratching,the howling, the snapping,napping like infants in a watery cradle,sheltered from death.

When dawn comes, the howling subsides briefly,as though the wolves are sniffing outthe new conditions—the light, the stirringof other creatures—but not for long.Soon they come rushing at the bow,running roughly under the hull,howling even more fiercely as they leap out,snapping at the now unfurled sails,chasing us underneath the water,bucking the hull up and down.Their frothing jaws snarl wildlyas they move in from all sidesspilling water over the foredeck,hour after hour, looking for a way in.Soon the horizon disappears altogether,everything is wet, cold, grey.Now we are all the color of sea wolves.